


The Gravedigger's Garden

by QuickYoke



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship, No Romance, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship is unfamiliar, but Necromancy is not. A character study. Spoilers for major and minor plotpoints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gravedigger's Garden

 

 

> _I crave for the roses and garden my best,_   
>  _That’s clad in the best in the word airy fence._
> 
> _Where statues remember me youthful and blessed,_   
>  _And I – them all covered by Neva’s cold waves._
> 
> _In silence, so fragrant, amidst limes of kings,_   
>  _I hear: the ship's masts are squeaking in swings._
> 
> _And sails the white swain through the ages again,_   
>  _Enjoying the charm of his brother-of-twain._
> 
> _And deadly sleep hundreds of thousands steps_   
>  _Of friends and of foes, of foes and friends._
> 
> _And the train of shadows has no the end_   
>  _From vase’s granite to the palace of grand._
> 
> _There whisper each other my white nightly skies_   
>  _Of somebody’s love, very secret and high._
> 
> _And all shines with jasper and pearl in the night…_   
>  _But nobody knows a source of the light._
> 
> _-Anna Akhmatova_

 

* * *

 

Necromancy always smelled of home. Cassandra thought she had escaped it for good. It had been years since she caught the scent of embalming fluid and incense pulsing in the air like a winding vein. It happened one cloudy afternoon. The gates opened with a groaning swing. People murmured in the lower courtyard. Cassandra was leaning against the battlements above, chewing thoughtfully on a yellow-ridged apple, fingers sticky, when far below she saw him. The Mortalitasi's green and violet robes swung with every stride, hood flung back to reveal his flat face. He did not look up in preternatural knowledge of her whereabouts, nor did he act any differently than his two companions. He gazed about the courtyard in quiet speculation, immediately settling himself beside the wounded tents and looking content there with the sick and dying moaning at his stitched feet.

Cassandra swallowed, feeling sick. The apple was barely touched – a few pale teeth-marks gouged from its surface – but she threw it over the walls behind her. Already the scent of linens soaked in sunflower oil and burning myrrh trailed up to her location from below. Hands clenched into fists, she made to return to her training corner, only to freeze, head jerking back around.

There the Inquisitor descended, feet bare and silent across the stone steps. She spoke to each of the trainers in turn, face downturned, her height accentuating the hard angled slope of her nose and cheeks. Each trainer craned their necks to address her, Herah's towering shadow cast like a bluff across the sea, the sun glinting off her engraved horns. Her dark face remained unreadable, but she spoke longest with the Mortalitasi. By the end of their conversation that familiar ghostly light danced at Herah's fingertips, flickering between her splayed palms, and Cassandra was clutching the hilt of her sword in a white-knuckled grip.

Over the next few weeks the stringent smell seemed to linger across Skyhold like a memory, unpalatable. Herah continued to ask Cassandra to accompany her on missions across Southern Thedas, and Cassandra continued to attend. She came when bidden without question or complaint, even when Varric's constant sarcasm grated on the nerves, and the remnants of Necromancy flickered across the battlefield, making Cassandra's eyes harden to awls. She was afraid Herah would remind her more and more of Nevarra, but Herah was not at all like the gray corpses that wandered with frequent moanings the Necropolis her uncle tended. She seemed to solidify in the sunlight – the basalt hue of her skin, and the faïence undersides of her hands and feet, calloused, earth-rubbed.

At every opportunity Herah would kick off her boots, peeling the leather from her calves like a nectarine rind. So different to the Necromancers Cassandra had known in the past – the Mortalitasi sheathed crown to heel in swathes of cloth, stroking and coaxing spirits to animate the dead with copper-fingered gloves. She remembered so starkly the rhythmic clacking of her uncle's idle and impatient fingertips. Varric would tap the end of his metal capped stylus against the table while he grasped at words, and it drove Cassandra mad when they shared a cabin across the Waking Sea.

Time and time again Herah defied her expectations of Necromancers. While not the most loud nor the most garrulous, could often be heard across a large space. Her voice lumbered thoughtful, plodding, and chest-deep. Her words carried weight like a pack animal, and on one such occasion she explained to their group that she had a gift for picking exactly which tea or other herbal concoction best reflected one's personality.

“Bullshit,” Sera shot back bluntly over a cup of heady ale.

Many of them sat around a table in Skyhold's tavern, enfolded in music, and hearths, and a raucous murmuring from the other patrons. Varric had even managed to drag Josephine away from her piles of paperwork, and the Antivan looked lonely without her usual writing implements. Instead she rolled a favoured wine in a goblet, every not and then taking a careful sip. Bull, Varric, and Sera all seemed intent on competing over who could make the biggest fool over themselves with drink. Even Cassandra idly traced the auric handle of her half-empty mug, while Leliana's fingers mimicked Maryden's chords – perhaps subconsciously.

“Go on, then!” Sera challenged, “Tell us! What's my favourite?”

Herah gazed pensively at Sera, then turned her trenchant eyes upon each of them in turn. She chewed at her cheek for a moment and then said, “For you, Sera: ginger and lemon. Josephine: rooibos, cinnamon, apple, and cardamom, topped with cream and almond shavings.”

“Ooh, that sounds lovely,” Josephine sighed.

“How come she gets the fancy one?” Sera grumbled. She did not deny Herah's choice though, and the Inquisitor continued without comment.

“Bull: you'd like fennel, either as a tea or brewed with your ale. Cullen: sweet woodruff. Dorian: _kaffa_. No cream.”

At that, Dorian nodded and tapped his cheek, “I do like _kaffa_. Only ever had it once, though. Damn good stuff.”

“Leliana: chocolate melted into hot milk.” Herah pointed to the Spymaster. In response Leliana made a low noise of agreement in the back of her throat.

Herah's head swung and Cassandra knew she was next. It felt as though Herah were shuffling through her past, fingertips slow and combing. The distant memory of the Divine Justinia V – newly raised to the Sunburst Throne – gesturing for her to sit, pouring red tea into cups flashing porcelain-thin with sudden heat. Cassandra standing at attention, unsure of how to relax, of how to gauge this new Divine, and finally deciding to obey orders and take the tea gingerly between her hands. Too hot, too sweet, too floral – Cassandra could not tell if she loved it or hated it. A mixture of both, perhaps. But there was no possible way Herah could know about–

“Rosehips and hibiscus,” Herah said without hesitation.

There was a clang and a splash. Cassandra looked down to find that she was on her feet, and her mug leaked ale onto her boots. The others all stared at her in surprise, all except Leliana whose eyes were sad, and veiled, and knowing.

“Excuse me,” Cassandra cleared the burr in her throat, and pushed away from the suddenly silent table, “I must...Excuse me.” As she rushed away without a backward glance, jostling the bench in her haste, she could heard the others.

“Probably been too long since she's stabbed something,” Varric quipped.

“ _Varric._ ” Leliana's voice held a dark, warning note.

“Sorry.” He grunted.

But then she was outside, and the night air was a cool blessing, and she tried not to think of the Divine – what once was, and what was lost. The open door of the nearby tavern warmed Cassandra's back. She steadied herself with even breaths. Behind her she heard the soft bad of bare feet moving against wooden slats. Cassandra did not need to look around to identify the narrow horned shadow cast across the earth like a knife's edge.

“I hated it at first,” she began with a shiver, “Rosehip and hibiscus. It was the opposite of everything I should have liked.” Cassandra crossed her arms, bracing against the chill, “I am –” she swallowed thickly, “–ill suited to it. I haven't had it since just before Divine Justinia died. To think that I would—” With a harsh, rueful laugh, she shook her head, “No. I would make a terrible Divine.”

“Not terrible. Different.” came the reply.

“You are too kind.” Silence, and then Cassandra whirled around, eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, “Can you read minds?”

For a moment Herah appeared genuinely stunned, and then she threw her head back and laughed, deep and full-bellied.

“I'm glad you're amused,” Cassandra growled, “I however remain worried.”

Schooling her features until she was once more indecipherable, though her golden eyes shone bright as a wolf's through the shadows, “I assure you, Seeker, I cannot read minds. Now, would you like to come back inside?”

“I –” Cassandra peered around the Inquisitor's tall frame towards the door, still spilling its buoyant firelight and music into the night. She sighed, then shook her head, “No. Thank you. I think I shall retire for the evening.”

“Alright.” Herah turned away, stooped beneath the doorway and disappeared into the tavern.

Always perfunctory, yet deliberate – Cassandra could not tell if these were Herah's most endearing traits, or the most repellent. When Cassandra got wind of the missing Seekers, Herah's response was immediate. They tracked them to Caer Oswin, and in the castle's bowels Daniel lay dying, eaten alive from within by a tumorous demon. Herah did not speak or turn away when Cassandra delivered the final blow, the mercy killing falling like a benediction.

 _Don't._ Cassandra bit back the urge to snarl as Herah watched the life ebb from him with violet death magic still in her eyes. _Don't look at him_. As though she'd heard Herah turned away in search of the Lord Seeker, and Cassandra had breathed a tense sigh of relief. Daniel was dead, but at least he was not _Dead_. His bones would never grace a mausoleum's halls, cursed to wander the vast vaulted space. Cassandra whispered a silent prayer, then followed. The scent of home and Necromancy grew thick and entangling as they neared the next fight, and Herah's footsteps slithered with spirits in her wake like cold dark fire. When she killed Lucius, she meticulously ripped the soul from his chest, the very clench of her hands wilful, her face a mask dark, cold, resolved. Cassandra shuddered to recall the continuous twitching of the Lord Seeker's limbs long after he had died.

Yet more often Herah appeared placid, irenic, and the air around her smelled of flowers, fresh-cut and green-blooded. The tails of her cloth coat wafted long and linen and grassy. Her knees were patched with a quilt-work of old earth, undershirt rolled up beyond her scuffed elbows, broad shoulders bowed low over the garden floor as though in reverent prayer. Seedlings clustered at her shins in constant attendance, her touch somehow sprout inspired.

Skyhold's Orlesian guests muttered behind their masks about the Inquisitor's 'unseemly and mundane' hobby, until Leliana pointedly murmured her approval while visiting Herah in the gardens one sun-streaked afternoon – “Too often warriors and leaders forget how things grow even in trampled dirt.” She even asked for a small blossom to pin to a missive being sent to Empress Celene, which Herah gave without question, and soon every Orlesian noble about the keep could be seen sporting a rare flower affixed to their breast. They boasted that the flowers tended to by “Her Worship” never wilted. Cassandra scoffed when she saw the price one such flower fetched at Val Royeaux, set in a crystal velvet-lined box. She dared never admit however that a small wooden vase in her quarters held a haphazard bouquet Cassandra had gathered in a fist behind her back when the rest of Skyhold's inhabitants had turned in for the supper bell.

Whether Herah took any notice of these events, Cassandra did not know. Until one day Herah blinked down at her in surprise, “I did not think you an observer of fashion.” She cocked her sweeping horned head, a smile playing at her lips.

Cassandra scowled in puzzlement, “I do not know what you mean.” Her voice was punctuated by heavy intakes of air, and sweat bundled the slicked fringe along her brow; she had just finished a particularly intense sparring match with Iron Bull. Triumph still flooded its warm sting through her frame at her recent yet admittedly close victory.

Herah pointed to her shoulder, and Cassandra pushed her chin back to see. There, trapped amidst a clump of dirt-laden weeds, a small wild flower throated white and pink in the crease between her high collar and breastplate.

Teeth clenching at the treacherous growth, Cassandra brusquely knocked it loose, dislodging the grass and clay as well, “That's -!” she grit out, “-not what it seems! Bull and I were –!” But one look at the amusement skeined across the angles of Herah's face, and Cassandra knew all objections would be in vain. “You caught me,” she mustered every reserve of dry humour, “Orlesian fashion is my true calling.”

Herah's sharp eyes glittered golden in the afternoon sun, “Leliana and Vivienne will be so thrilled to hear.”

Cassandra fixed the Inquisitor with her best glare, “Tell them, and I'll throw your favourite books into the armourer's forge.”

“Two can play at that game, Seeker.” Herah teased, and Cassandra stomped off before Herah could see her flaming cheeks, “I'm sure Vivienne would appreciate a bit of blackmail to get you into a dress.”

Just a few days previously, in preparation for the fast approaching ball, Vivienne had accosted them upon their return from a flurry of missions in the Western Approach. Every nook of Cassandra's clothing bristled with sand. She smelled of recent killings; blood coiled across her armour, and she yearned for nothing so much as a hot bath. Yet Vivienne blocked their path at the main gates, wearing robes with the most impressive shoulders Cassandra had seen to date, festooned with eagle feathers that jutted from her throat to either side like wings, “Oh, just look at the state of you two! We absolutely must make a stop in Val Royeaux to visit my tailor before the ball, my dears! You cannot appear at Halamshiral looking like vagabonds!”

At that, Cassandra snorted gracelessly. For years her uncle had tried forcing her into dresses. The handmaids who tended to her soon learned to fear the thunderous screaming, kicking, and biting when he ordered them to make her look 'presentable.' At seven years old, she had wrecked as many dresses she could get her hands on with a pair of stolen scissors, regardless of whether they would fit her or not. By the age of nine she was the bane of skirts, and her uncle had given up on dressing her. Not that it stopped him from pushing suitors on her in droves.

On the other hand Herah looked taken aback yet intrigued, “How would they,” she faltered and cast about for the right phrasing, “accommodate my eccentricities?” she asked.

“With grace, boldness, and a little flair.” Vivienne replied without missing a beat, “We must play up your 'eccentricities', as it were, not mask them. Nothing but _avant-garde_ for you, my dear.”

Herah tilted her head back warily. Cassandra smirked, “You look like you're already regretting this,” she drawled.

“I think you may be right.” The two glanced at one another. A look passed between them, and immediately they darted around Vivienne in quick retreat, fleeing to their separate quarters before she could give chase.

Vivienne gave a long suffering sigh, calling after their retreating backs, “So much potential, yet no hope of progress – for either of you!

A hot bath was one of the few places to which Cassandra could escape the stench of Necromancy. Perhaps it was a figment of her imagination, the house that reeked of death like a breath from the tomb, the odour of the altar sacrifice, the far-off groaning of shambling corpses – and there Herah stringing the dead behind her into battle with eyes like beacons into the void. Cassandra could hide, override her senses – long baths steeped in soap, skin scalded pink and raw, or surrounding herself with the comforts of the forge, ringing metal clamouring in the ear, and sparks blurring the edges of her vision red and orange.

But even in battle the tomb haunted her. Templars trampled flat the snows of Emprise du Leon, their chest cavities eruptions of red lyrium. Face twisted with disgust, Cassandra slammed one in the midriff with her shield, and where he sprawled she plunged her sword. As he died, his skin expanded, bloating outward, bursting at the seams with flecks of rotten magic. He split like an overripe fruit, splashing all around him with stinking black gore. Other templars it touched screamed, flesh melting from their red-veined bones, casting a splattering chain reaction.

Cassandra stood in the centre of it all, stunned. Her hands went slack around the handles of her weapons. Black bitter cruor dashed across her like slops of paint. The stench was overpowering. Bits of hair and teeth stuck to her shield and hauberk. The icy ground was drenched a wine-dark claret.

An enraged roar shook her to her senses, but not quick enough to react. With a wailing smote a blundering templar Behemoth slammed into her side, and she heard more than felt her shoulder pop free. Arrows made the Behemoth a pincushion, and Iron Bull flanked it with an expert sweeping blow. With a howl the Behemoth crashed to its knees and perished. Iron Bull wrenched his axe free with a victorious bark of laughter, then turned to Cassandra, who struggled to her feet, “You look awful, Seeker,” he held out his hand to help her up, “I hate it when the Boss uses that spell myself. Too messy, even for my tastes.”

Rather than take his arm, she lurched towards a nearby tree. Against the rime-clutched trunk she flung herself, knocking the shoulder back into its socket with a muffled groan of pain. Loose snow slumped from the heavy-laden branches, and a heap of it fell atop her, some sliding icily down her neck and back. Varric snorted and Iron Bull guffawed good-naturedly. Herah though reached over with a smile to brush clumps of snow from Cassandra's head – sticking and matting her dark hair – but Cassandra jerked away with a hiss.

Covered in snow and blood, she gasped for breath, steam rising from her in narrow tendrils. Everything reeked of death – myrrh, and old meat, and sunflower oil. Her stomach roiled, and her shoulder ached, and her vision swam. Memories of visiting the Necropolis when she was a child, her uncle tugging the ceremonial gloves past her wrists; of being forced to touch the dead, to feel the copper flash warm upon contact with flesh that should have stayed cold; of jerking her hand back with a strangled gasp, her uncle scolding her for breaking the ritualistic songs with a silent fist clenching painfully at her shoulder. She had flinched. Her collarbone had been bruised for a week. She shook the memory free. She desperately needed to feel clean again. By the time they returned – the others giving her brooding form a wide berth – she had begun to flake away the outer layer of gore like a thick crust. Even Varric bit his tongue when she swung a baleful glare towards him at his needling. One of the Orlesian ladies fainted at the sight of her. In the end it required three baths to be pulled in order for her to feel clean, yet the faint waxy traces of sunflower hung around her for days afterwards, driving her to distraction.

A wayward sunflower blossom dared to rear its yellow crest near her training corner. She was sitting upon the four-legged stool and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand when she saw it. Mouth tightening, she strode over and crushed it to a pulpy mess beneath her boot. One or two had once speckled Herah's gardens, but after that incident they all mysteriously disappeared. Cassandra only noticed after Josephine remarked that she'd seen the Inquisitor carting away a pile of uprooted sunflowers to the mulch pits outside the Keep.

Guilt and no small amount of anger gnawed away at her until she cornered Herah on the battlements near the mage tower. “Were you spying on me?” she demanded, “Is that why you dug up those flowers?”

Upon seeing her approach, Herah gently placed the basket that was looped around one thick wrist on a gap in the parapets. Rather than look cowed as most were when faced with the flinty-eyed Seeker, Herah merely blinked slowly down at her, “Ah. You're referring to the Helianthus species.” She gave a dismissive shrug, “They attract lepidoptera that were an unwelcome addition to my garden.”

“Speak plainly!” Cassandra ground out through gritted teeth.

“Larvae. Heaps of them.” Herah explained simply, “The sunflowers would have died regardless. Might as well spare them from moths or your heels.

“So you _were_ spying on me!” Cassandra jabbed an accusatory finger.

With a fierce scowl, Herah retorted, “The purpose of a garden is to please people. If it does not please Skyhold's inhabitants, then it must be changed so that it may best perform its intended duty.”

For a brief moment Cassandra faltered at the frustration in Herah's tone, then she growled, sullen, “It's your garden. It should please you first above others.”

“Gardening pleases me as a process,” Herah crossed her arms across her chest, two oaken branches across a gnarled tree trunk, “If the fruits of my labour are unwanted by my friends and community, then what have I achieved? Others make requests: Mother Giselle asks for Elfroot and Blood Lotus; Sera for common daisies; Vivienne for Arbour's Blessing and Prophet's Laurel; Bull for ingredients for a home-brewed horn balm. Some do not vocalise their requests at all: Josephine's eyes linger on the small climbing roses when she greets me with her mid-morning report; Leliana goes silent and melancholy, yet smiles at Andraste's Grace when she thinks nobody is looking; and you –” Herah fixed Cassandra with a molten gaze, “–you relish the blueberry pastries the cook started making after I planted two berry bushes. All of these I am happy to be able to provide.”

Cassandra's jaw went slack. She took a step back and stared. Suddenly the faint hint of embalming fluid that seemed to linger around Herah at all times flared. Cassandra felt nauseous. Swallowing back the memory of the taste, Cassandra retorted, “Plant what you like. That's all I'm trying to say.”

“I will. I have.” Herah plucked the basket from its perch and strode away without another word.

A wind whipped briskly atop the battlements, but still the smell of death remained. Gripping the hilt of her sword tight, Cassandra stormed off in the other direction towards her training grounds, intent on wearying herself to near exhaustion. For hours under the sun's ceaseless glare she toiled, hacking at the mannequins with her blunt, heavy practice sword until they stood tall as splinters, headless, limbless.

An appreciative whistle made Cassandra snap her head around, teeth bared in a snarl. Iron Bull stood nearby, eyebrows raised, “Glad that isn't me.”

The sword dropped heavily to the ground, and she slumped against the stone wall, leaning on her knees, “What do you want?” she growled between gasps.

Iron Bull rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug, “Nothing. But if you got all that rage out of your system, you should go talk to the Boss. I'm not usually one to advocate 'talking' but you look like you need it. Or else you need to get a little something else out of your system.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“It's. Never. Happening.” She snapped, even as she took the towel he tossed towards her.

Smirking, Bull shook his head, “Whatever you say.”

Mopping at her face and the back of her neck, she shooed him away with a glare, and he left with hands upraised in mock surrender. She allowed herself time enough for her breathing to return to a normal pace before she sighed. Returning the practice sword to its rightful place, she spared the dummies an apologetic glance, and slouched away. Deep in the bedrock beneath Skyhold there was hewn a series of vaulted storage passageways flanked by small rooms adorned with cobwebs, and old bottles filled with older liquor, and scant else. In one such side room the walls were lined with dusty tomes thick and heavy enough to kill a man in a single swing. When nobody else could find the Inquisitor, Cassandra knew the little hidden library was where she would be lurking.

Sure enough Herah was crouched over the too-small desk heaped with tall towers of leather and cloth-bound volumes. Illuminating the room was a single oil lamp, and at Herah's feet sat the same basket of flowers. Her broad back faced the door, the twist of her silvery hair sliding loose and freeing a few wayward strands that trailed between her dark horns. Resting in the corner was her staff, its crystal tip glowing soft, blue, and intermittent. Quietly Cassandra approached and looked over her shoulder. She was drawing each plant and carefully labelling the segmented pictures with fluid descriptions. Her handwriting was neat and cramped – quite unlike Cassandra's own uniformed and blocky letters, all strictly aligned like soldiers arrayed for a battalion inspection. The tips of Herah's fingers were patched with ink, and a swipe marked one of her high cheeks.

"I'm compiling a book of lesser known flora of Ferelden and Orlais," Herah said without preamble.

Cassandra started. She had thought Herah utterly engrossed in her task; it was often difficult to remember that others did not attend to their efforts with the same single-minded focus, "I can see that."

"Not the most riveting work, I know," her pen continued to scratch, painstakingly shaping an anther on the page, "Certainly not what you're accustomed to reading."

Inwardly Cassandra bristled, but punched down the urge to snap a retort. Instead her mouth thinned, and then she sighed, resigned, "At least you can write. I've no talent for it in the slightest."

Herah huffed, a sound Cassandra had learned was a form of laughter – one of Herah's many cheery sounds, "My writing is an unruly creature I've been forced to tame over the years," Herah set the simple wooden stylus aside and reached for the sand, "I'll never have Varric's natural skill – and neither will you – but we can hone our abilities. It only takes time and practice." She dusted the finished page, then smiled over her shoulder, "Just like your swords."

Cassandra's dark brows knitted together, "Yes, but I've no love of fighting. If I am to write or read, I wish to at least enjoy it."

Herah's slow-moving gaze travelled across Cassandra's face, and for a moment she was quiet. Then she gestured to the seat adjacent, "Sit," she offered, rather than ordered, while pulling free from the stacks a loose sheaf of paper.

Hesitant, Cassandra did so, her knees meeting at perfect right angles, posture upright and away from the table. When Herah pushed the paper toward her and pinned a fresh stylus between her fingers, she balked, "I don't think—" she started to say, but her mouth shut with a click when Herah levelled a look in her direction.

"You should know better than most that inspiration must be disciplined," Herah began, "There's no better time to start than the present. You don't have to write a story, or even a sentence. Just get into the habit of collecting words. When you hear or read a word or phrase you like, write it down. Ask yourself: 'Why do I like that? What about it pleases me? How would I use it, given the chance?'"

Cassandra stared at Herah as she finished her speech, then turned back to her own work, "That's it?" she asked, incredulous, stylus poised over the blank page, "That's your grand advice?"

"Less talk, more work," Herah didn't even look up.

Sighing, Cassandra dipped the end of the stylus into the shared inkwell between their elbows, "Sometimes I wonder how you managed to inspire nations with that attitude," she muttered.

Herah grinned pointedly, "With help from my charismatic friends, obviously."

At that Cassandra froze. The breath stuttered in her chest, and ink swelled at the nib. With trembling fingers she wrote the first word at the top of the page.

Herah glanced over, blinked, then gave a kind yet sad smile, "You're a terrible sap sometimes." It was not said teasingly.

Cheeks growing pink, Cassandra grumbled defensively, "I'm only following your instructions."

Herah huffed again and shook her head. At the top of the page the ink glimmered in Cassandra's blocky letters the word 'FRIENDSHIP.' Cassandra studied the word, lips pursed, “I don't –” she began, then stopped to tongue thoughtfully at the backs of her teeth, “–I don't have friends.”

Herah snorted, “For a Seeker of Truth, you spout an awful lot of lies.”

“Well.” Cassandra conceded almost grudgingly, “One friend. Maybe.”

Herah glanced wryly up from her book, “Maybe?”

In response Cassandra's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, “Maybe.”

“Do let me know if I make the shortlist,” Herah replied, “I hear the auditions are daunting.”

Smiling in spite of herself, Cassandra hummed appreciatively and wrote the word 'DAUNTING.' “That is a good word.” She remarked, leaned back to savour the way the ink glistened on the page, rich and wet and black.

“I live to serve,” Herah murmured dryly.

“Hush,” Cassandra chided, “You're ruining our perfectly nice reconciliation with your babbling.” Beneath 'DAUNTING' she etched the word 'BABBLE' then formed the word with her mouth as though tasting it. Herah watched her with amusement, and Cassandra felt her stomach sink, “I'm sorry,” she started fumbling over her words, “About how I've been acting lately. Necromancy makes me,” she grimaced, “uneasy.”

“So I gathered,” Herah replied. The amusement had vanished, and in its place her face had reverted to its usual unreadable state.

“I have a history with Necromancy. It's never sit very well with me. I find it distasteful. Though,” Cassandra added, hurried, when Herah simply blinked at her, “I understand why you might find it useful to employ in battle. I do not mean to sound accusing. I just –” she heaved a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose, unwittingly smearing her face with ink splotches, “I'm terrible at this sort of thing,” she muttered under her breath.

“Now who's ruining a perfectly good moment with her babbling?” Herah teased. She fished in her pocket and handed Cassandra a handkerchief, “You've ink on your face.”

Glaring, Cassandra nonetheless snatched the handkerchief and wiped at her nose and brow. It smelled clean – there wasn't a trace of incense or oils clinging to the fibres, “I'm trying to apologise!”

“I know,” Herah tilted her head, “Thank you.”

“Yes. Well.” She finished scrubbing at her face, “At least you take my apologies better than Varric.”

Herah's mouth canted into a sly grin, “From you that's not very high praise.”

Cassandra scoffed and hurled the waded up handkerchief so that it flared and hit Herah square between the eyes. Another huff of amusement, and the two of them returned to their own projects. Silence descended between them – not like a wall dividing the space, but like a curtain enshrouding them in the circular nook together. Herah turned in early with a rumbling farewell, and when Cassandra returned to her own room later that evening, the flowers that had begun to wilt in their vase had been replaced with a bundle of hibiscus blossoms tied with a length of white silk. Embarrassment stained her cheeks rosy, but she could not wrestle the pleased smile from her face. 


End file.
